


Undressing the Captain

by Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon



Series: Undressing, Dressing [1]
Category: Captain America (Comics)
Genre: Captain Hydra, Established Relationship, Gift Fic, Happy Birthday Tiny Assassin, Horseback Riding, Hydra (Marvel), Kissing in the Rain, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Making Love, Military Uniforms, Secret Empire (Marvel), Secret Relationship, Undressing, Uniform Kink, roll in the hay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-05 22:04:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18837670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon/pseuds/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon
Summary: A horseback ride, a rainstorm, a sensual afternoon spent together. Steven Rogers, known to the world as Captain Hydra, and Baron Zemo, his right-hand man, cling to each other, sharing desperate kisses, and stripping each other of their uniforms (and their defenses) piece by piece by piece...





	Undressing the Captain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MnM_ov_doom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnM_ov_doom/gifts).



> ~*~A very happy birthday~*~ to my Hydra!Stemo partner-in-crime and dear friend, MnM_ov_Doom. This is me, calling you out in front of all of AO3, for having some *serious* uniform-kink! I so hope this lil' fic will sate your lust for Sam Browne belts, surcoats, and riding boots. You are a treasure.

A storm gathers in the distance and, across the pristine land that has been in the Zemo family for centuries, the yellow light of midday is gradually subsumed by gray. Streaks of sun valiantly struggle to break through the clouds, and those that do, paint the landscape in vivid color. From here, the rain looks like early morning mist. The sight is eerie and thrilling. A chill breeze whips across grasslands ahead of the storm, sending waves through the tall grass.

The atmosphere is charged, not just from the static in the air, but from the potential of the moment, as well. It is the perfect sort of weather, the Baron’s favorite.

They ride twin Hanoverian stallions, rich, dapple grays, almost identical. Gunnar and Gregor. These horses are a miracle of birth. They are fighters, both, from their first moments of life, fighting for their mother’s milk and attention. And even now, they compete with one another, eager to show off for each other. They race, evenly matched, neither holding the lead for very long.

When they are apart, they fall into distress. They must be stabled together, ridden together. Each without the other is less than.

_Brothers._

Steven Rogers is _Zemo’s_ brother.

His best friend.

His leader.

Sometimes Helmut thinks that without Steven, he, too, is less than.

The horses are restless with energy, prancing, pawing at the earth, eager to charge. And so the two men take off at a full gallop together. Running as if to outpace their personas.

Not the Hydra Supreme.

Not the Thirteenth Baron of Zeulniz.

Just two men, _alive_ , and wild as stallions.

They shout to each other over the wind, their words secret and lost. The horse’s hooves drum against the hard earth and the wind whispers with the coming storm.

They stop at the crest of a hill and gaze out on unspoiled land.

Helmut inhales deeply, taking in the smell of rain, so clean on the breeze.

They’d returned from a Hydra march this afternoon—a demonstration of power and unity—and once back in the comfort and privacy of Castle Zemo, they’d gone straight to the stables. They did not bother to change out of their uniforms, simply saddled their horses and rode out, giving the stallions their heads, letting them run and go where they pleased.

In the distance, thunder rumbles a low warning.

“The storm is coming,” Zemo says, watching the clouds roll in. “Should we turn back?”

When Steven smiles, a dimple forms in one cheek. Handsome and perfect. Helmut has felt that dimple under his fingertips, time and time again, traced around and through the dip of the skin, pressed his scarred lips against it. He wants nothing more than to touch it again.

“Only if you’re afraid of getting a little wet,” Steven responds.

Gregor seems to grin along with his rider and Gunnar tosses his head in acknowledgement, chuffing. Zemo smiles broadly.

“I fear nothing, Herr Rogers.”

The first drops begin to fall as they swing through the open field toward a copse of trees at a canter.

Helmut laughs and drops his reins, guiding Gunnar only with his knees. He holds out his hands, letting the droplets splatter against his gloves. He turns his face up to the sky and considers—only for a moment—removing his mask. He’s lost much of the sensation in his face, but still there are moments when he can feel. Perhaps this would be one.

Next to him, Steven lets out a low chuckle.

“What?” he asks, arms still outstretched.

“You haven’t changed since you were a boy, Helmut.”

“You are mistaken, Steven,” he says, his broad smile diminishing, becoming something smaller, something tighter. _Perhaps if he hadn’t… Perhaps if the Allies hadn’t_ changed _him with their Cosmic Cube…_ He takes up the reins again.

Cold, fat drops of rain splatter the pair of them.

Steven relents and says, “Perhaps.” And then, “Wait. Helmut. Come here.”

Helmut turns Gunnar and horse and rider come to stand alongside twin and brother-in-arms.

Steven leans over and presses a kiss against Zemo’s mask. It tastes of rainwater and fabric. Greedily, Helmut lifts the edge of his mask to capture Steven’s lips. To taste _him_ instead.

They never discuss it, these stolen moments, between planning sessions and meetings, mock battles and true.

They never discuss what they mean to one another, either.

Never discuss how they’ve become so desperate, so deviant, for each other in the calm between storms. Here, where they can, and do, make their own sort of calamity.

The skies open up then, pouring forth on them and still they kiss under the heavy shower.

Steven Rogers takes one last, lingering moment to run his gloved fingers along Zemo’s exposed skin, skin more scar than flesh. He traces the curve of the jaw, bruised and broken so many times. Shattered by opponents with unnatural strength, disfigured by the hubris that drives his foolish need to prove himself a hero. The touches are feather-light, lingering.

Zemo parts his lips, rainwater trailing into his mouth, and along with it, he tastes the leather of Steven’s gloves, nipping at them.

He burns with desire.

He _burns_ with his need to get Steven out of the rain to somewhere dry and warm, where he can strip him naked, piece by piece and then take him apart in ways more fundamental, more personal.

“Let us return.”

A handler greets them at the entrance to the stable, but Zemo immediately dismisses the woman, wishing to tend to his own horse.

The Zemo stables are opulent, temperature-controlled, with stone floors and large stalls fitted with oak doors. Each door is adorned with a golden plaque, engraved with the name of the horse it house, along with  the year of its birth. Spaced along the ceiling are chandeliers that offer extra light when the high-set windows are not enough. Zemo is especially proud of his stables, and of his collection of horses, curated from the world’s finest breeders.

Helmut and Steven lead their horses inside, removing their saddles and quickly hosing them off. He cross-ties Gunnar and begins to scrape the water from his beautiful dappled coat. Zemo glances over to watch Steven who is mirroring his own movements, completely at ease with his steed. He squeezes water from its mane and tail, then works his way down the legs, squeezing gently at the fetlock joints. He finishes up with a towel.

Watching Steven care for Gregor is nothing short of fantastic. He speaks soothingly to the horse and Gregor bumps Steven with his head affectionately.

They tether the horses outside of their stalls, near enough to see each other and be entertained by their twin’s antics. Then they throw matching wool cooler blankets over their backs, royal purple with the Zemo family crest emblazoned on them.

Together they walk the length of the stable, side by side. The Baron breathes in the sweet scent of hay and rain and unconsciously reaches out for Steven’s hand. Steven laces their fingers, squeezing.

He relishes when Steven pulls him close, invading his space, crowding him back into a small, hay-filled alcove.

Steven’s dress uniform valiantly resisted the rain, but in the end it succumbed. It droops and leans in places where it should be crisp and stiff, but Captain Rogers looks no less dashing. With a soft smile, Helmut reaches up to brush back a loose, wet lock of Steven’s hair.

_“Du bist ein Meisterwerk.”_

Steven hums his appreciation at the comment, his expression hovering somewhere between humble and smug.

“We could return to the castle,” Zemo murmurs, hiding a secret smile under the mask. “Clean up, change clothing, sit by the fire. You could see my newly acquired piece. The _Stammheim Missal_. I know you do so enjoy art.”

“The illuminated manuscript?” Steven cocks an eyebrow, guardedly intrigued. “The one on display at the Getty?”

Zemo’s smile broadens. “Oh, is it there as well?” He shrugs a shoulder playfully. “One never knows if what one sees on display is real...or fake.”

“It’s tempting,” Steven agrees, letting the words hang, another offer buried just under the surface.

He steps forward, herding Zemo farther into the alcove. It’s warm and dry, protected from the breeze that comes from the open stall windows. The hiss of rain outside, the patter against the tin roof, makes for a beautiful accompaniment.

“Or we could stay.” Helmut gives voice to Steven’s unspoken offer. “No one is here but the horses.”

“And I doubt they’re interested what we get up to,” Steven agrees with a delighted smirk.

Helmut licks his dry lips. “You must be cold, Steven. Let me take care of you.”

Steven nods, eyes half-lidded. His bright blue eyes are dark in the shadow of his lashes and Helmut is thrilled to know _he_ is the cause of that expression.

He kneels, running his hands down the wet fabric of Steven’s trousers.

Zemo starts with Steven’s riding boots; black, authoritarian despite their muddy soles. He runs his hands along the Captain’s calves and snarls in frustration at how little he can feel. Helmut rips off his gloves and tosses them aside so that he may freely caress the rain-splattered leather. Only when he’s felt every centimeter does he finally turn his attention to removing the footwear. He take Steven’s ankle and heel firmly in his hands and slowly removes the boot, revealing a thick woolen sock, still dry. Probably the only part of Steven that is. He makes short work of the sock, not nearly as interested, and sets both aside.

Then he pulls off the other, leaving the Captain’s toes bare on the hay-strewn floor.

With tender care, he sets the boots side-by-side, noble and synchronous. He rises to his feet and reaches for the clasps holding Steven’s cape in place, unhooking them each. He squeezes out the extra water, far away from the Captain and he lays the cape, silken side down, across a low railing to dry.

All the while Steven’s eyes track his movements, a small smile playing about his lips. He must enjoy seeing Zemo like this—serving him. It is unusual for a man as proud and strong as Zemo to care for another as if he were a manservant. He would never do this for anyone but Steven Rogers.

Helmut reaches for Steven’s Sam Browne belt, a small groan involuntarily escaping his lips as his fingers brush the dark leather.

“If only I could leave this for last,” he murmurs warmly, his voice thick. He grasps at the waist and at the shoulder, tugging Steven just a little closer. The belt is his favorite part of the entire uniform.

A fanciful thought blazes through the Baron’s mind. Perhaps after Steven is bared to him, body exposed to the gray-white light streaking through the windows, he could replace the belt. Zemo groans, biting his lip, savoring the thought of Steven in nothing but the Sam Browne, and places it on the ground next to the boots.

“Your uniform fetish is showing,” Steven teases and reaches out to cup Helmut’s face. Even through the wet fabric, his hand feels warm.

There is no denying it, Helmut has always loved Steven in uniform. Even that dreadful patriotic red, white, and blue monstrosity had its own certain appeal. _Form-fitting._ He’d wanted to take his sword and slice it, piece by piece, revealing the Captain’s body with pristine care.

They breathe in each other’s space, close enough to kiss. But Zemo hesitates, letting the moment buzz and reverberate around them. Letting it hang, as electric as the lightning outside.

He hums lowly as he removes Steven’s gloves.

He takes his time with the jacket, letting his fingers stroke along the shoulder boards, trace the braided loops of the aiguillette, catch at the golden rank insignia on his collar. _Hydra Captain._ It does not matter that Steven is now the Hydra Supreme, he still wears the rank of Captain with pride, foregoing the strange, ornamental mask worn by his predecessors.

Helmut slowly unbuttons the double-breasted long coat, lingering at each button.

“You’re”—Steven starts to speak and then pauses, swallowing. Zemo looks up at him questioningly—“quite diligent, Baron.”

“Would you prefer I move faster?” Helmut asks, challenging him to say ‘yes.’ It’s an order he’s sure to defy. He does not often get to touch Steven like this, and even less so in the dress uniform. He will linger as long as it pleases him and apologize later if he must.

“You’re doing fine, Helmut,” Steven says and draws in a deep breath as the jacket is pulled from his shoulders and laid out on a pile of hay near his other clothing.

Then Helmut slowly removes Steven’s undershirt, peeling back the damp fabric to reveal centimeter after centimeter of perfect, hard flesh. His stomach muscles tense as Helmut’s bare fingers trail along in the wake of the rising hem. He reveals Steven’s chiseled chest, deliciously formed pectoral muscles, nipples hardened by the chill air. He only barely manages to resist the urge to catch one of them between his teeth.

He lingers a moment too long on the sight before redirecting himself back to the task at hand: Steven’s trousers and the hardness—very prominently displayed—underneath. He unzips the pants with care, and then he lowers them down Steven’s legs, over tautly-muscled thighs and well-defined calves.

Zemo attempts to keep his gaze from Steven’s cock, delaying his pleasure, by meticulously laying out the last of the Captain’s clothing to dry. He takes in a deep breath, immerses himself in the moment of anticipation, and then turns. His breath escapes in a needy groan.

Steven is a perfect god of a man, rigid, his cock proud, straining, _desirous._ And yet his face reveals nothing except a small smirk, his eyes dancing. The alcove has grown too warm, the world too unsteady. He can not find a foothold in consciousness, his thoughts swimming against the currents before being swept away. There is only one constant in the midst of the torrent. The solid, immoveable figure of Steven Rogers.

He stares at Steven, trying to memorize the hard roadmap of his body, as if this moment will be hiss last opportunity to see the man exposed.

His attention lingers on the dark blonde hair that trails down from under Steven’s navel, leading like an arrow on a map to his cock. Long, thick, tinged red at the tip, and hard, _so_ hard. Hard for Helmut and for what is to come.

It is all Helmut can do to maintain control. He longs to dive upon Steven and take him into his mouth, to make the Captain spend himself down Zemo’s willing throat.

_“Lass mich dich schmecken. Nur ein wenig.”_

Perhaps, if he exhibits enough restraint, Steven will allow him a... _taste._

Steven considers it, his features tortuously collected, and then nods. “Only for a moment, Helmut,” he says with dark authority. “When I _come_ , I want to be buried deep in your ass.”

The words make Helmut’s belly quiver with anticipation.

He lowers himself to the ground and pays no mind to the pain in his knees as he greedily licks along the base of Steven’s cock, feeling it throb. He plays with the head, gently swirling his tongue around it. He drops light-kisses along Steven’s length. And after he feels Steven’s frustration growing, he parts his lips, taking the cock into his mouth. He stops after only a few centimeters and looks up at his Captain.

“Tease,” Steven grinds the words out through clenched teeth and a wicked smile. He grips the back of Zemo’s mask, pulling the fabric taut, controlling the Baron’s head. Then he thrusts himself deep and Helmut gags and splutters before being dragged back.

Steven does not apologize, but his grip loosens enough to return control to Helmut, now properly chastened for his teasing behavior. Zemo guides the next pass, easing his way down the shaft, mindful of his teeth, until his lips brush Steven’s hair-roughed pelvis.

This time when he feels the cockhead bump against the back of his throat. He takes a moment to prepare himself and then pushes, slowly, past the tight muscled ring of his throat, taking Steven even deeper.

The desperate cry Captain Rogers lets out seems torn from him.

Helmut does not gag this time, but tears stream from his eyes as Steven thrusts in little aborted movements, groaning deep and loud, clutching the mask as if it is his lifeline. Helmut fights to breathe through his nose, loving that he is able to have this effect on Steven. Able to make him so reckless. So lustful.

His control is cracking, flaking around the edges. He does not want to pull away, wants to service Steven, wants Steven to spill down his throat, wants to swallow his Captain’s seed and leave him sated. But just as he’s fallen into a steady rhythm, Steven yanks back on the mask, pulling Helmut off his cock with a wet pop.

_No!_

“ _Ich brauche dich so dringend,_ Steven!” He is hoarse, yearning, and he struggles mightily against Steven’s restraining hand.

“ _Geduld_ , Baron.” _Patience_.

Any other time, he might feel embarrassed at being forced away, shame painting him like a common whore. But pride has no place here. Not when he is on his knees, tormented by his need to please Steven. Helmut’s face is aflame, though even if it were fully exposed, the heavy scarring would mute the redness.

“Be _good_ for me, Helmut.” His tone brooks no argument.

With a shuddering exhalation, he finally takes the hand Steven offers and is practically yanked off the floor. His own erection is hot and hard, rubbing needily against the inside of his breeches.

“What would you have of me, Steven?”

Steven gazes at him and Zemo’s eyes drop to his spit-slicked cock, shining in the strained light of the storm. Outside thunder rolls mercilessly and, inside the stable, the horses are restless. He feels like one of them, ready to break his tether and to run.

“Do you want to undress me?” Helmut’s breath catches in his throat as Steven wipes spit off his bottom lip. He shivers at the touch, tasting the tip of his thumb.

“I need you naked, Helm.” Steven’s voice is a tight growl, “ _Now._ And I’ve got no patience to neatly fold your clothing. Help me, or I’ll rip the clothes off of you.”

_Gott im Himmel._

Zemo nods firmly. There is no hesitation, only action. Together they scrabble frantically, warring with Helmut’s tactical gear. _It_ is the enemy standing between them and carnality and satiation.

Zemo’s belt and shoulder holsters are dropped, his leather surcoat thrown haphazardly. Together they dig free his purple under-armor, yanking it off his torso. He hisses as a cool breeze chills his damp arms and neck, but then Steven is there, his very presence warming the air around Helmut. And, lost in the melee of clothing, Steven, true to his word, rips Helmut’s breeches, sending the button flying, breaking the zipper, rending the leather down to the leg.

Helmut toes off his boots, his socks, stumbling, helping Steven push down his pants, stepping free of them.

He’s left in naught but briefs and mask.

Steven growls orders at him. _Naked. Now._ And the Baron, wanting nothing more than what is to come, hooks his thumbs into his waistband and lowers the underwear, freeing his cock.

Steven’s breath hitches, his eyes roaming Helmut’s body.

This is what the world does not see. What they will never see. These starved moments, filled with lust and need.

Steven catches Zemo’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head up. His gaze is even, measured. Zemo, by contrast, is frantic, lost.

“It is not quite fair, Captain,” Helmut whispers, plaintively. “You are so composed.”

Steven does not deny this, but his gaze drops hungrily to Helmut’s mouth. Slowly, telegraphing his moves, Steven leans in, still holding Zemo’s chin, and brushes his lips—warm, dry, giving—against Zemo’s.

Helmut sighs, and leans closer, encircling Steven in his arms. He claims a second kiss, and a third, and a fourth, each hungrier, more eager than the last. His Captain hauls him closer by the waist and Helmut makes a noise of delighted surprise as they press together, cock against cock. Helmut takes handfuls of Steven’s taut ass and groans when Steven does the same to him.

They kiss with frantic, sloppy energy, tongues tangling, dancing, _warring._

Words rumble beneath the surface, a million of them in English and German, clamoring to rise to the top, to pass his lips. Sweet and wanting, rough and desperate. Placed in the perfect order, these words could express every need, each nameless desire.

He begins to speak before he knows it. “ _Ich…_ ” Oh, these words. Why _these_ words? So crass, so base, unfit for a man of noble birth, and yet he can think of nothing better suited. He grinds his cock against Steven’s, nipping at his bottom lip, sharing his breath, whispering the words into his open mouth. “ _Ich will, dass du mich fickst._ ”

_Fuck me._

_Fuck me Steven._

_Fuck me and possess me and never let another have me._

_Make me yours alone._

_Fuck me until I can no longer breathe._

_Fuck me until even the sound of the storm outside is gone and there is only you._

Steven grabs hold of Helmut and hoist him up. Smoothing a hand along one of Zemo’s thighs, he encourages Helmut to wrap his legs tight around his waist. And Helmut clings to Steven, who pushes him back against the stable wall.

He’d expected the cold floor beneath them, or the hay, perhaps, but this? This is infinitely better.

Steven hitches him high, his arm around Helmut’s back.

With his free hand, he trails up Helmut’s body, feeling him with rough touches, up his neck, over his chin, to the place where his mouth is still exposed. And he dips his fingers between Helmut’s lips.

“Suck,” he commands, and Helmut does, with desperation, like he might wring an orgasm from those fingertips. He feels the twitch of Steven’s cock pressed up against his ass.

“At ease, soldier.” His voice is flooded with lust and something more—a tenderness that makes Helmut ache with longing. “Wet them.”

The sucking is replaced by gentle swipes of his tongue, coating Steven’s fingers in saliva. He knows that he is creating his own lubricant and so he does his best to provide as much moisture as possible.

He clings tight as Steven adjusts their position, moving Helmut to gain access to his tight hole without lowering him to the ground. The Baron lets out a sharp hiss as a solitary finger breaches him, slipping inside.

“You’re tight,” Steven growls. “It’s been too long since we’ve done this.”

“ _Ja_ ,” Helmut agrees, “ _Ja, und—_ nng!”

A second finger forces its way in.

“If I could keep you with me always, Helmut, keep you naked, in my bed, so thoroughly sexed that you’d be sloppy and loose all the time, I would.” And then he repeats it. “I would.”

Helmut nods and then cries out as those fingers scissor apart inside him, working him open almost ruthlessly. The sounds of the stable have drifted away and he can hear only his own breathing, the rushing of his heart’s blood in his ears, and Steven’s murmurs. Low, praise-filled musings, about how _well he’s doing_ and _good he feels._

“Please,” he begs. “Please, Steven!”

He does not care that he’s been reduced to begging. Baron Zemo cannot stand another minute without Steven’s cock deep inside him. His desperate pleas don’t stop until he feels Steven line up against him, the head of his cock right there at his teased-open hole.

“Are you ready?”

“I have been ready all my life,” he growls.

With one powerful thrust, Steven breaks into him. Helmut lets out a cry so loud it disturbs the horses, but he doesn’t care. He needs Steven. Needs him now. Needs him deeper. “Steven! _Uhhn!_ Steven, you must… deeper…”

And he does. Steven thrusts into Helmut, deeper and deeper until the Baron is seated fully on his cock. Helmut presses back against the paneling of the wall and rides Steven hard.

They converse in grunts and gasps and low moans. They exchange cries and shouts as Steven pounds into him, and Helmut grapples for his own erection, because he is quite certain that he will die if he does not get off. He will die, impaled upon Steven’s cock.

He loves this man. His everything.

His cock dribbles precum, but still he laps at his palm to add to the slickness. His hand, hot on his aching flesh, and Steven’s hard cock thrusting ever harder—as though he means to split Helmut open—combine to make him explode in only four firm strokes.

He shouts nonsense words in German and English, his head banging against the wall, his release splattering between them. He clamps down on Steven, pulsing around him and Steven crushes Helmut to his chest and he lets out a snarling cry as his whole body tenses and stills.

He fills Helmut with his hot seed, holding him firm as he rides out his pleasure.

And then with a groan, he drags Helmut down into the hay, laying him out not unlike his own wet clothing. They cling to one another, high in the afterglow, fighting off smiles and failing.

The hay is sharp, itchy, horrible bedding, but Helmut does not care. He does not care about the chill as the sweat cools in the draft of the storm. He does not care that the ejaculate is sticky between them.  He does not care when he looks up to see that both Gunnar and Gregor have slipped their tethers and are walking toward the hay room to snack and make mischief.

He could die right now, taking House Zemo to his grave, and he would be happy.

Under sleep-heavy lids, Zemo glances over to where Steven’s Hydra greens lay; the uniform he so loves, the cause he so loves. And he looks up at Steven’s face. The Captain’s hair is drying now, a tousled mess.

No one else in the world gets to see Steven Rogers this way.

Unspooled and unraveled.

 _I love you,_ Zemo thinks. He will not say it. Not today. But soon, perhaps. _Soon._

Instead he murmurs, “Hail Hydra.”

And when Steven pauses, chewing on the phrase, Helmut wonders if the “Hail Hydra” that drops from his lips is instead an _I love you, too._

 

~ Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider telling me what you think! Feedback makes the author blush and swoon. <3


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